Anybody Out There?
Page 43

He had me badgered with messages. Badgered. I’d had a couple of near misses at work, when he’d withheld his number, but so far I’d manage to avoid talking to him. I’d have to ring him back soon; it was only a matter of time before he arrived in person at the apartment—or far more scary, set Dana on me. But I just couldn’t bear to, not yet anyway.
Instead, I turned on the computer—and my heart lifted when I saw that there was a new e-mail. I held my breath and waited, frozen with hope. But it was from Mum! That made twice in one lifetime. What could be up?
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Mystery
As regards the woman and her dog, I am still keeping you “in the loop,” as they say. There has been plenty of “action.” This morning I “lay in wait.” She normally comes at ten past nine, so I was ready for her. As soon as she appeared, I pretended to be putting out the bins which I thought was a good “ruse,” even though bin day is Monday and it is your father’s job anyway.
“Nice morning for it,” I said, meaning, “Nice morning for making your dog do his wees at an innocent stranger’s gate.” Right away your woman pulls at the lead and says, “Hurry up, Zoe.” Now we have a clue. What a name for a dog! Then something terrible happened, the woman gave me a “look”—our eyes met, and as you know, Anna, I am not a fanciful woman, but I knew I was in the presence of evil.
Your loving mother,
Mum
P.S. In a couple of weeks’ time myself and your father are going away to “The Algarve” for a fortnight. It will be nice. Not as nice as the Cipriani in Venice, of course (not that I’d know), but quite nice. While we’re gone, Helen will be staying with “Maggie” and “Garv,” as you all insist on calling them. This means it will be hard to keep “tabs” on the old woman, but seeing as she gave me such a dirty look, this is probably no harm.
Across the room, the flashing light of the answering machine continued to accuse me. Go away, go away, why do you torment me so? I wished I could delete the bloody messages without having listened to them, but the machine wouldn’t let me, so I hit play, then legged it to the bathroom, hearing as I went, “Anna, it’s Leon. I know this is hard for you, but it’s hard for me, too. I need to see you…”
To drown out his voice I ran the taps with such Niagaraesque force that I drenched the front of my dress. I stepped back, counted to twenty-three, then cautiously turned the water toward off, but I heard Leon say “…my pain, too…” and with a lightning-fast flick of my wrist, turned the water back up to torrential, counted to seven and a half, eased it down again, heard “…we can help each other…” and immediately ratcheted the flood up as far as it would go. It was a little like tuning a radio and picking up signals. Radio Leon.
Eventually he finished what he had to say and I tiptoed from the bathroom and hit delete.
“All messages deleted,” the machine said.
“Thank you,” I replied.
On Saturday night Rachel “invited” me over to her and Luke’s—an offer I couldn’t refuse. Not unless I wanted a well-meaning lecture.
I had a pleasant-enough time until, a couple of hours in, I was overtaken by a panic that was starting to seem terrifyingly familiar: I had to get away.
Rachel would only permit me to leave after she’d questioned me closely on my plans for Sunday, but I had it all sewn up: Jacqui had arranged for me and her to go to a day spa called Cocoon. She’d said it would be good for me.
And it was. Apart from the aromatherapist telling me I was the tensest person she’d ever worked with and the pedicurist complaining that she wouldn’t be able to paint my toenails until I’d stopped twitching my foot.
Then it was Sunday night; I’d survived another weekend. But instead of being relieved, I was seized with terrible desperation. Something had to happen soon.
28
It finally happened. Aidan finally showed up.
Two and a half weeks after I’d come back from Ireland, I was at work, sitting at my desk, laboring at a quarterly spreadsheet, when he just walked in. The joy at seeing him was like the warmth of the midday sun—I was thrilled.
“About time,” I exclaimed.
He sat on a corner of the desk and his smile nearly split his face in two. He looked delighted and shy simultaneously. “Happy to see me?” he asked.
“Jesus Christ, Aidan, I’m so happy! I can’t believe this. I was afraid I’d never see you again.” He was wearing the same clothes he’d been wearing the first day we’d met. “But how did you manage it?”
“What do you mean? I just walked in here.”
“But, Aidan.” Because I’d just remembered. “You’re dead.”
I woke with a jump. I was on the couch. Lights from the street lit the room with a purplish glow and there was some racket outside: people shouting and the boomy bass line of a bridge-and-tunnel limo, which pulsed below me until the traffic lights changed and it moved on.
I closed my eyes and went straight back into the same dream.
Aidan wasn’t smiling any longer, he was upset and confused, and I asked him, “No one told you, you were dead?”
“No.”
“That’s what I’ve been afraid of. And where have you been?”
“Hanging around. I saw you in Ireland and everything.”
“You did? Why didn’t you say anything?”
“You were with your family, I didn’t want to butt in.”
“But you’re family now. You’re my family.”
The next time I woke it was 5 A.M. The morning beyond the blinds was already citrus bright but the streets were silent. I needed to talk to Rachel. She was the only one who could help me.
“Sorry to wake you.”
“I was awake anyway.” She was probably lying but there was a chance she wasn’t. Sometimes she got up at the crack of dawn to go to an NA (Narcotics Anonymous) meeting before work.
“Are you okay?” She tried hard to stifle a yawn.
“Can you meet me?”
“’Course. Now? Will I come over?”
“No.” I was desperate to get out of the apartment.